


Copper & Hellfire

by Spoonzi



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Come Eating, Father/Son Incest, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Free Martin Whitly, Frottage, Hair matted with blood, Hurt Malcolm Bright, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Intercrural Sex, Just the Tip, Kidnapping, M/M, Murder, Rough Sex, Soft sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:00:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23636431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoonzi/pseuds/Spoonzi
Summary: His arms are raised, cuffs leaving harsh red lines in his skin, and both his middle fingers are extended towards the person taking the photo.Now with a РусскийTranslation.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 9
Kudos: 72





	Copper & Hellfire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Torched22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torched22/gifts).



> Thank you to my amazing beta [Ponderosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121) for making this fic even better than it was in the first place.
> 
> Lex, this isn’t something I’ve ever dabbled in before but I think I did okay so I hope you like it!
> 
> Bad Things Happen Bingo Square: Hair Matted With Blood

**Martin**

Martin is just starting to get worried that Malcolm isn’t home yet when he gets the text. The feeling of fear climbed up his spine with chilled hands when he sees the photo of his boy only left in the grey slacks he’d been wearing that morning. There is blood dripping from his forehead, somewhere beneath his now loose hair, and his nose, which thankfully doesn’t appear broken in the picture but does seem swollen. Scratches and bruises are scattered about Malcolm’s body focused mostly on his anterior torso and around his obliques. He rushes to get the money, taking some from each safe in the house and planning to withdraw the rest on the way. 

Then he looks at the photo again. Malcolm is on his knees, spine straight and chin up. His jaw is set and there is fear in his eyes but there is also anger there. His arms are raised, cuffs leaving harsh red lines in his skin, and both his middle fingers are extended towards the person taking the photo. His boy is strong, beautiful, and angry even through the terror Martin can see in his eyes. 

Martin’s fear is overtaken by a flood of anger. Whoever this person is that took Malcolm is going to die no matter the consequences. It’s not hyperbole, he doesn’t just think it like a normal, concerned father who threatens his kids’ significant others with bodily harm. He means it and he has the means to do it. He puts the money back and gathers supplies instead along with clothes for both he and Malcolm. 

When his thumb hovers over the little call button next to Jessica’s name, he knows he isn’t going to tell her about the kidnapping. She and Ainsley are happy and safe in the Hamptons celebrating the girl’s soon-to-come sweet sixteen. Instead, he tells her that he and Malcolm are taking off on an impromptu camping trip for a few days to get away from the city and they will be back before the party so she shouldn’t worry. 

The address when inputted into his maps app seems to be an out of the way camping cabin not two hours from the city, and isn’t that just wonderful. Martin drives aggressively, speeding far past the limit, keeping an eye out for police vehicles, anger at the mysterious person and fear for his son fueling him. He has to slow twice to avoid police detection but he makes it in just over an hour and fifteen minutes. 

He grabs the black duffle from the passenger seat and slides a syringe containing a sedative up his sleeve before exiting the car. He rounds the cabin as instructed in the text message and seeks out the doors to the cellar only to find one slightly open where it is caught on the other. Cautiously he yanks it open and carefully steps down the creaking stairway into the underground area. There are shelves full of clutter, camping gear, and even two canoes and a few inter tubes scattered about the room. 

Martin walks past all of the storage going towards the aged-yellow light of a bare bulb near the other end of the room. Quiet shuffling and a chilling gurgling sound makes him walk faster, until he passes the last shelf of tools and building supplies. What he sees he almost can’t comprehend. 

  
  
  


**Malcolm**

Malcolm had left the house at ten swaddled in a too-big sweater that he thinks is probably his dad’s because he couldn’t find his favorite Harvard one. He’s got all his summer assignments in his bag and it isn’t too hot or too breezy when he steps out of the house so he waves Adolpho off and decides he’ll walk to the library. He stops at a coffee shop and gets an overly sweet Frappuccino that probably shouldn’t even be called coffee. 

The last thing he remembers before he wakes up on a gross concrete floor with a throbbing headache, is cutting through the park to reach the library and a splitting pain in the back of his skull. He groans and shifts, shivering at the feel of the cold stone on his back instead of his father’s soft, knit sweater. Blinking against the eye-searing yellow light, he finds that he can only open one eye at first because the other is crusted shut. He jerks against the cuffs around his wrists to sit up and drop his head to his hands so he can feel at his eye. He scratches away the rust-colored grit that is his own dried blood. 

A man sits across from him in a chair observing him with beady grey eyes. He’s got dirty blond hair and a strong frame, not altogether unattractive but Malcolm can smell him from where he sits feet away. Cigarettes and sweaty body odor permeate the air around the guy like a cloud and he can feel his nose screw up a bit at the taste. 

Malcolm tries to get some wetness in his mouth, licking his lips to find them also generously coated with dried blood. That would explain the throbbing in his nose. Lifting his cuffed hands as high as they can go before they catch on the loop anchored in the floor and says, “You know usually I like to consent to being chained up _first_.” He’s always been a little bit of a cheeky shit. He likes to think he gets it from his mother. 

The man glares at him. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Ah, not a talker then.” Malcolm observes scanning the area. There is a shelf of tools to his left, a concrete wall to his right, and a set of stairs behind the man. He can only guess that he’s in some sort of basement or cellar. “That’s fine, we can play charades if you like. Your prompt is: tell me what time it is.” He’s using humor to cope with the situation and he’s talking too much because he doesn’t deal with fear well. 

He can feel his hand trembling and he’s focused so hard on trying to make it stop —trying to generate a plan, or trying to figure out what time it is so he knows if he’s late to lunch and someone will be looking for him — he doesn’t notice his captor has moved. That is, until a booted foot slams into his stomach over and over again, knocking the wind out of him and sending him back across the floor. The concrete scrapes along his arm and side in long scratches that sting and well with blood. When the man stops kicking him he steps back and climbs the stairs opening the door and slamming it behind him. 

Malcolm sits up slowly, his breathing labored, a deep hurt radiating from his belly and a sharper pain burning along the scratches. He tries to formulate a plan, tries to think of a way out of his situation. The man steps back in, a fat cigar hung between his lips, and sits heavy in the chair leering at Malcolm. “I’m going to have fun with you.”

He’s struck with a wash of terrifying clarity. He’s been kidnapped. He doesn’t know where he is or how long he was knocked out. There is no current, visible way to escape. This man could very well be a killer — _like his father_ his mind whispers — or worse, a rapist. A sick feeling shoots up from his stomach into his throat like burning fire and he shifts away from the man only to find his chains won’t let him, causing the man to laugh around the butt end of the cigar. “Not so mouthy now huh?”

“I tend to avoid conversation with people I find disgusting,” Malcolm growls because he can’t seem to stop himself. He’s so damn angry that this asshole has him in a weak spot. 

The blond man merely raises a brow and pulls a phone from his pocket, swiping at it and holding it up in front of him. “Smile for the camera, Malcolm,” he commands. Malcolm glares, straightening his shoulders and drawing both hands up to flip him off just as the phone flashes and the artificial picture sound echoes through the room. 

The man frowns at the phone and stands pocketing it before making his way over to Malcolm. He crouches in front of him and hooks a finger under his chin dragging it up to look into his eyes. “Your daddy couldn’t save my baby boy. He won’t be able to save you. I’m going to make him watch you die slow and in pain just like my David did. Then, I’m gonna kill him, too.”

Malcolm is suddenly hit with the fact that he could die here. He could die and never go on to graduate or get a job or get married. It should make him afraid, and it does, deep down inside. He is afraid, under the anger and determination filling him. Shoved back against the floor, Malcolm watches the man pull out his phone as he climbs the stairs back into the main house.

He pulls at the cuffs, testing the fit of them. He won’t be able to get out of them without a little help. He claws at the already broken skin of his arm grunting and holding back tears at the pain until he has blood dripping down his arm and he can slather it around his wrist to slick it up. He knows it isn’t going to be enough, that he’s going to fuck up his hand trying to remove it from the cuff even with the thick redness of his own blood easing the way. He takes a deep breath and grabs the cuff anyway biting his tongue to force back a scream as he begins to pull his hand and the cuff away from each other. He doesn’t stop even though it hurts and he bites so hard he splits the skin of his tongue, flooding his mouth with the taste of copper as his thumb dislocates. 

He sits for a second just recovering, but he knows he can’t waste any time so he yanks the chain through the loop on the floor and gets to his feet just as the door opens again. He runs. Malcolm weaves through the shelves and random things strewn on the floor hoping he can skirt around the man when he gets to a wider space in the basement. His eyes snag on a set of doors up some more wooden stairs as he rounds a shelf and he launches himself at them climbing quickly and shoving at the latch until he can force one open. 

A broad hand seizes his ankle and yanks him down causing his head to crack down on the stairs. He feels blood well up and seep into his hair from catching on the edge of the step and the man starts dragging him before he can get his bearings. He struggles, squirming and flaring out his arms and legs in an attempt to escape the man’s steely hold. He can’t help but hope he doesn’t have a concussion when his vision blurs and he can feel that his head is still bleeding. 

_“Head wounds bleed more and they bleed faster. Most of the time they aren’t as bad as they appear to be.”_ His father’s voice flies through his mind as he’s dragged around the tool shelf into the yellow light again. 

Malcolm’s eyes land on the open door as his vision begins to come back to the eye that isn’t curtained by his blood. He kicks as hard as he possibly can and catches his captor in the back of the knee. The man falls forward into the floor on his knees, and the grasp on his ankle is dropped. Malcolm stumbles to his feet, running for the stairs and the opened door. He only makes it two steps up before he’s grabbed violently by his blood-wet hair and yanked backwards. He lets out a yelp that nearly drowns out the sound of creaking at the other end of the cellar. 

His kidnapper uses the handle on his hair to throw him into the tool shelf, but he makes the mistake of glancing towards the creaking sound. Malcolm doesn’t let the wind being knocked out of him cause him to miss his chance and he makes a wild grab at one of the shelves, slapping his good hand down on the handle of a screwdriver. The blond man looks back at him just as he rushes forward, using his momentum to knock the man back against the concrete wall. He fights against Malcolm valiantly, but Malcolm is already driving the tool into his chest. 

Malcolm yanks it back out and stabs again, his foot sliding across the floor as the man almost succeeds at pushing him away. Plunging the tool forward again, he catches his captor in the throat and yanks the screwdriver right back out, covering him in another spray of blood. He stabs the man’s throat again, and again, and again, until he can no longer hold the bigger man up and sinks down with him to the floor. He slams the makeshift weapon into the blond’s throat one more time and just leaves it there, his shoulders heaving as he tries to catch his breath. 

  
  
  


**Martin**

His boy, his baby boy, is beaten, bruised, and bloody. Scrapes all down his side that have been viciously scratched even farther open, hair matted with blood falling into his eyes smearing more redness into his skin, and a hand that is obviously injured — dislocated thumb if he isn’t mistaken — but still being used to hold a man against the wall. Malcolm looks like he’s been through hell, but his eyes are fierce and alight with rage as he plunges a flathead into his captors throat. 

Malcolm is stunning and beautiful and Martin can’t help but observe as his boy kills his kidnapper brutally and viciously. The sight has him rock hard and wanting. He watches until his son is kneeling on the ground breathing heavily and shoving his bloody hand through his equally blood-soaked hair in an attempt to get it out of his face. Martin approaches carefully, a wounded animal fights the hardest after all, and gets down on his knees a few inches away from the boy speaking softly, comfortingly. “Malcolm, my boy, I’m here. Everything is going to be okay.”

His son jerks as if he hadn’t even realized Martin was there, and he looks up with dark eyes and blown pupils. He suddenly has his arms full of his son, the boy straddling his legs and squeezing his arms tight around Martin, a sob escaping him as he buries his face in Martin’s neck. He hugs the boy back, trying to avoid letting his hardened cock brush against Malcolm’s ass or cause any further damage to him when he already has so many wounds. 

“He was going to kill you. He was going to kill me first. He was going to kill us and I couldn’t let that happen,” Malcolm says into his neck, his voice croaky and his lips rough against Martin’s skin. 

“I would never have let that happen, my boy. I’ll always come to save you.” He pulls back and looks down at his boy. One bloody hand comes up to caress his face, stroking across his slightly grey-speckled beard, and Malcolm’s eyes train on his taking as he seats himself completely on Martin’s lap. A hard cock is pressed up beside his own, startling Martin more than he’d like to admit. 

“I’m like you now,” the boy says and it jars him because Malcolm _knows_ about him. How long has Malcolm known? Why hasn’t he ever said anything? He looks at his son, searching for the answers and Malcolm continues, tears gathering in his eyes as he croaks out, “I killed someone, Daddy.”

“I know, baby boy, but it’s all going to be okay,” Martin assures him. He attempts to wipe the tears away but they just keep coming. “I’m going to fix it.”

His boy doesn’t speak again. Instead he pulls Martin down far too quickly into a sloppy, painful type of kiss that leaves Martin aching. He can’t help but to lick into his son’s mouth finding that, like his lips, Malcolm’s mouth tastes of copper. He prods Malcolm’s tongue with his own and the boy jerks back hissing slightly. Whether it be from pain or the way that their cocks drag together from the movement, Martin doesn’t know. 

Malcolm pulls him into another kiss and it’s just as desperate and biting as the last, if not more so. His slick, rust-colored hands tangle in Martin’s hair and he kisses like his life depends on it. The first thrust of his boy’s hips against his own makes them both moan. They stay like that until the position hurts, moving against each other desperately, but not getting the relief they need. Finally, he pushes forward moving to a more comfortable position where Malcolm is against the ground and he can hover over him. 

Martin prods at the boy’s tongue again, finding that this time Malcolm doesn’t pull away when the bite wound on his tongue begins to well with blood. He laps and sucks the metallic taste away, smiling against Malcolm’s lips as the boy fumbles at the buttons and zips of their trousers with his good hand. After a moment of struggle, their bare cocks brush and they both roll their hips instinctively. 

The air around them smells like blood, earth, and arousal, and it fills with their panting and groaning. Malcolm’s hands are still tacky with blood when Martin feels him fist their cocks together—it isn’t necessarily a good lubricant, but it works. Martin kisses his son with fervor and dedication, and the boy kisses back with adrenaline-filled depravity and _feeling_. 

It isn’t right or normal. The fact that they are father and son is only one reason. The other, most obvious reason, is the rapidly cooling body only mere feet away from them. None of that matters to Martin though. The way his boy writhes under him is better than anything he’s ever felt, and Malcolm has the taste of copper and hellfire on his lips. 

He moves his hand to help them along when he feels the boy beneath him tremble with pleasure and the already desperate kisses get sloppier. He slides his hand over Malcolm’s cock with purpose, thumbing the sensitive glans below the head before sweeping to stroke over the wet slit. The way the boy moans for his Daddy and arches up against him when he comes is what sets him off. He thrusts hard against Malcolm’s still pleasure-trembling form until his own cum splatters across his boy’s blood-spattered and bruise-marred chest. 

They come down together, and after moments of rest they have already spent too much time dilly-dallying. It takes both of them to get the body of Malcolm’s captor upstairs and shoved into the—thankfully empty—deep freezer in the kitchen. It’s only a temporary solution until he can get Malcolm to go to sleep tonight and he can actually begin the body disposal process, but it will do for now, and he can’t be more proud of his boy. 

The water and gas in the cabin is on, so Martin retrieves both his bag from the basement and the one from the car. He flinches when he has to sit his boy down on the toilet lid and relocate his thumb. The pained cry that ensues has him kneeling in front of Malcolm soothing his tears away once again. Afterwards, he herds Malcolm into the shower, but when he tries to leave to give the boy a little private time after all the events of the day, Malcolm has other ideas and Martin finds himself dragged in as well. 

He spends the shower with Malcolm pressed against his chest, cleaning up the scratches and cuts to make sure they don’t get infected or need stitches. After he finds that the cut on Malcolm’s head is fairly shallow and he won’t risk hurting him too bad if he cleans it, he does so. He takes his time, carefully washing away the clumps and tangles of blood matted in Malcolm’s hair with steady fingers and a calming voice. 

Malcolm stays curled against him when he begins to wash his own hair and beard of the traces of blood from the boy’s hands. It’s as if he thinks that if he isn’t touching Martin then he’ll try to leave again. He spends some time after they are both clean just holding Malcolm against him under the warm spray in case the boy is in shock, drifting his fingers over the skin of Malcolm’s back where he seems the least injured. 

They exit the shower together nearing eight o’clock when the sun is mostly set, leaving only a sliver of light outside the windows. He towels Malcolm down slowly and efficiently, making sure that all of his skin is dry and his hair is as dry as they can get it without a blow-dryer. He dresses all of the wounds, brushing out Malcolm’s hair so he can easily apply antibacterial medicine and skin glue to the cut on the back of his head without having to shave off his hair. 

Martin is able to get his boy into a soft pair of sleep pants but when he tries a shirt it gets pushed away almost vehemently. Malcolm sits on the counter next to the sink, curled around his bandaged arm with his powder blues firmly fixed on Martin as he gets dressed in a worn pair of jeans and a soft flannel shirt. He’d change into pajama pants as well, but he has to deal with a dead body whenever he finally gets Malcolm in bed. 

He has to walk back to the kitchen with his arm around the boy because he won’t stray from where he is glued to Martin’s side. There isn’t much in the way of sustenance other than some canned food and bottled water, but he lucks out at finding some saltines. Malcolm settles in his lap when he sits down, leaning his head against Martin’s shoulder which makes him smile in delight. He breaks the crackers in smaller pieces so that he is able to get his boy to eat at least half a sleeve and drink a full bottle of water. 

The bedroom’s queen bed isn’t as big as he is used to, but it is definitely big enough for the both of them. He finds a set of flannel sheets in the linen closet among the cottons and dresses the bed with them in case Malcolm’s skin is over-sensitive and that’s why he’s required so much of Martin’s touch.Even settled among the sheets, Malcolm reaches out for him, and he can’t help but sweeping forward to stroke his fingers through his wet hair.

The boy’s fingers trace over the soft fabric of his shirt in patterns only known to him, and he curls close, not looking up at Martin when he speaks. “I killed someone today… I should feel sorry and guilty… it scares me that all I feel is relief.”

“My bright boy, never feel sorry for being able to survive,” he advises almost as quietly. 

Finally, Malcolm shuts his eyes and tangles the fingers of his good hand with Martin’s. “Please just don’t leave me, Daddy,” he whispers. Martin holds him until he knows that Malcolm is asleep. 

  
  
  


**Malcolm**

Malcolm wakes up slowly to early morning light drifting through the window and an arm heavy around his waist. He stays still for a moment just breathing in the scent of pine and his father’s cologne and watching dust particles dance across the swath of light spilling from the gauzy curtains. He laces his fingers with those of the bare arm slid around him and snuggles back into his father. He finds himself overjoyed to feel the bare skin of his father’s chest and stomach pressed up against his back. He shivers and his skin prickles with goose-flesh at the comfort. 

The arm around him pulls him tighter, and he can feel the scratch of beard hairs and the tickling of soft lips as Martin moves to brush his lips over the sensitive join of his neck and shoulder. He shifts, trying to bare more of his throat to focus on. Soft kisses press into his skin several times before his father speaks to him in a quiet, sleep rough voice. “Good morning, my boy.”

Malcolm rolls as far as he can to look up at familiar blue eyes and tilts his chin up silently begging for a kiss. They spend a long few moments just trading lazy kisses but time seems frozen around them. The only thing moving beyond them are specks of dust dancing slowly through the sunlight. When they pull away, he can’t help but smile. “Morning, Daddy.”

He likes the way his father’s eyes go dark when he says it, and he squirms back pressing his ass up against the swell of a half-hard cock. The hand in his pulls away to wrap around his hip giving him a little squeeze before his dad rolls his hips up against Malcolm. He lets his eyes flutter closed as they lazily move against each other sharing soft, eager kisses. Martin seeks friction and he himself just enjoys the feel of a large cock pressed against his crack through the thin fabric of their pajamas. 

He can only hold out for so long though and all too soon his cock is aching, straining against the soft cloth trousers, staining a spot wet with precome. He pulls from a hot, slow kiss and turns his eyes up to his father hoping the puppy eyes that worked so much as a kid will work now. “Please, Daddy. Want you inside.”

Martin kisses him again, easily invading his still sleep-soft mouth and coaxing his sore tongue into a deep exchange that almost makes his toes curl in and of itself. When his dad pulls back, Malcolm’s breathing is heavy and his mind is a little slow as if it’s fogged over. His dad speaks against his lips, “Not until you are cleared by another doctor, my beautiful boy.”

The restriction makes him whimper and open his eyes again, pleading with the man who just smiles indulgently at him. With a wink, Martin moves, dragging both of their pajama pants down until they can kick them out of the bed. Malcolm lets his prone, and still a bit achy body be turned back into his good side, and smiles when the entire naked length of his father’s body presses against his back. He can’t help but giggle when beard hairs and soft lips flutter across his nape, and fingers drift in patterns of feather-light circles down his side and over his hip. 

His father’s fingers stop at his flank, slowly tracing for a moment before he slips forward, spreading a large, warm hand over Malcolm’s inner thigh. His thighs are parted and he gasps as he feels the slick tip of Martin’s dick pass over his balls as the man moves to settle his cock between Malcolm’s thighs before letting them fall closed once again. The member feels large and thick between his legs, the mushroom head of it slick against the underside of his cock where it reaches the base. He can’t help but tense his muscles and squeeze the cock between his thighs, shivering at the low moan and the aborted thrust the action provokes from his father. 

“Daddy, please,” he whispers into the still air of the room as he tries to roll his hips. 

Martin shushes him in a more calming manner then a rude one, and moves his hand to envelop Malcolm’s own length in its heat. “Daddy’s got you, my boy,” he promises before he begins slowly thrusting against Malcolm and pumping his dick with the same rhythm. 

Small moans he can’t seem to contain spill from his lips, and he shivers when a hot tongue drags over the crook of his neck before his father’s mouth latches on to suck at sensitive skin. The sensation of lips and tongue on his throat, his father’s dick pulsing between his thighs and dragging over his balls, and the attentive hand stroking his cock makes him tremble. It makes him beg and plead and whimper ‘ _Daddy, please, please, please_ ’ into his hand as he tries to muffle his pleasured moans from the world. 

“What do you need, baby boy?” Martin asks against his ear, tongue flicking up to drag along the curve of it. The nickname almost sends him over the edge but his father must feel it because he squeezes down at the base of Malcolm’s cock to stave off his peaking climax. He pants against his palm and finds it wet with drool and the dampness off his breath. 

Finally, when he realizes that his father won’t move again until he answers, he lets out a final shaky breath and says, “Please just keep talking, Daddy.”

“My sweet boy,” his father croons in his ear as he begins to rock his hips again, dragging them back and forth, slow and steady to spread his precum over Malcolm’s thighs and balls, making his skin slick and sticky. He doesn’t move his hand though. Instead he keeps his fingers circled just shy of too tight around the base of Malcolm’s dick. “That isn’t all you want. Is it?”

No it isn’t. He wants his daddy so deep inside him that he can feel it in his throat, but he knows he won’t get that today. More than anything he just wants to be full. “Want your cum,” he whispers, his voice meek and quiet behind his hands. “Want it inside, Daddy.” He pauses in debate and speaks again before he can stop himself. “Don’t want to finish until your cum is filling me up.”

His father lets out a sound he doesn’t know how to quantify, and pulls back his hands and cock pulling away causing Malcolm to let out a whine. The older man croons soft words to him in response as he moves stacking pillows up around waist level before manually moving Malcolm to the middle of the bed on top of them. When he is carefully resting face-down on top of the pillows, head comfortable on one and cock digging into more, Martin covers his body with his own speaking low into his ear. “I won’t fuck you, dear boy. I already said that.” He croons and Malcolm can feel his smirk against his skin. “But there are other ways to fill you up with my essence _without_ fucking you.”

Malcolm shivers as he feels the older man retreat, from the promise he’s spouted or the cool air running across his skin, Malcolm isn’t sure. Large, warm hands settle over each cheek, kneading then before prying them apart. He almost jumps out of his skin when his father’s tongue strokes over him, his beard hairs brushing the sensitive skin of his ass. Martin takes his time, lapping him open and sloppy with long, slow strokes as well as fast, swirling strokes. It drives him insane, and has him squirming against his bed of pillows in minutes. 

His father pauses whenever he starts to tremble. He’ll pull back and just look as Malcolm feels a chill settle in from where he’s been licked open wet and sloppy by his dad’s tongue. Somehow, Martin brings him to the edge twice using only his tongue. When he pulls back a second time, Malcolm feels two fingertips slide just slightly inside of him and a moan is knocked out of him when he feels himself being pulled open. Martin makes a noise behind him and withdrawals again and he can’t help but whimper because he _needs_ his Daddy’s hands on him. 

He relaxes when a hand comes down to caress over his hip again gasping and arching up into his father’s hold as the spongy head of his cock nudges against Malcolm’s hole. When his father pushes in he can’t help but push back wanting more and groaning when Martin won’t let him, gripping Malcolm’s hip to keep him from filling himself with the older man’s cock. “Now, now, my boy. _Behave_ and when you’re cleared you and I will sneak away for a weekend and I’ll fuck you full and leaking the entire time.”

Malcolm can’t help that his hips twitch forward, rubbing himself up against the pillow beneath him at the promised thought of being fucked full of his daddy’s cum for an entire weekend. He thinks about how it’ll feel warm and fulfilling within him, how he’ll feel it for days afterwards. He also thinks of how it will feel leaking out of him. He buries his face in the pillow just focusing on his father as the man shifts and pumps his cock. Fingers drift across his skin and catch in his hole at the upwards stroke and if he focuses he can feel the subtle throb of the length stretching him open. 

Malcolm bites his lip when he feels his father shudder behind him and the hand on his hip tightens. Martin moans and finally he lifts his head from the pillow dragging his lip from between his teeth to beg. “Please, Daddy. _Please_. Come inside me, Daddy.”

And his daddy _does_ , with a softly crooned _Malcolm_ and a tiny—quickly controlled—thrust of his hips, the man paints his insides with his cum. His body fills with the warmth, and he moves his uninjured hand to caress the bottom of his stomach as if he can feel it there as it pumps inside him. His knuckles brush against his cock as he presses against his lower abdomen and he’s sure it’s harder than it’s ever been, aching for release. 

His father breathes for a moment once he is done filling Malcolm with his cum, but eventually, he moves and pulls out, much to Malcolm’s dismay. He slides up against Malcolm’s back, wrapping an arm around him and carefully looping his fingers around his aching erection. Malcolm shivers when Martin runs a thumb over the back of his hand where it is pressed against his stomach. It only takes a few strokes and a whispered _‘Come for me, baby boy’_ before he is shouting his daddy’s name and spilling himself all over the pillow under his hips. 

Malcolm lets himself be rolled into his good side again and smiles contentedly when the older man slips up to spoon against him. He watches curiously as Martin scoops up some of the cum from the discarded pillow, and opens his mouth obediently when the spend-covered fingers hovers in front of his lips. He is fed his own come until there is none left to scoop off of the pillow, and he’s just laid against his father high on post-sex endorphins and love-lapping at the fingers in his mouth. 

“I’m so proud of you, my beautiful boy,” Martin murmurs against the back of his neck, damp breath and vibration ghosting along his skin. Malcolm feels closer to his dad than he ever has before, more like him in all the best ways. He shivers as his chest fills with warmth.

**Author's Note:**

> Join us on the [Prodigal Son Trash](https://discord.gg/J3YeZmV) discord server for anyone who is pson trash and 18+!


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